


It Really Is Christmas

by Hyliare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Gen, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Shacklecroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyliare/pseuds/Hyliare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange sort of Potterlock in which no Sherlock characters are magical, and the only wizarding character to appear is the inimitable Kingsley Shacklebolt. The first of many stories to support my rare but much-loved ship, Shacklecroft.</p>
<p>Sherlock had stared into John’s eyes as he’d reached out, picked up the final shortbread, and crushed it in his fist.<br/>And that was how he ended up outside Mycroft’s office, being forced to invite him in person on threat of death.<br/>(On threat of sleeping alone until next Christmas, actually, but weren’t they one in the same?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Really Is Christmas

Sherlock was pacing the flat, glaring at the Christmas decorations that Mrs Hudson had put up in their absence. It was almost impressive, that one small woman could so thoroughly violate a space in under two hours. “Just the same as before, then, since that went _so_ well.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly…Just a small get together. Drinks.”

“No _girlfriend_ this time. No _Jeanette_.”

“…No. And no mysterious gift from _The Woman_ , either.”

“Probably not.”

John stared for a moment, brow twitching into something dark for a fraction of a second, before he nodded and glanced back down at his laptop screen. “Maybe you could invite Mycroft around.”

“ _Ugh_. Why? We’ll already be seeing him at my parents’ before.”

“It’s polite. And it’s _Christmas_.”

“It’s Christmas _Eve_ …As though either date makes any difference whatsoever.”

“Sherlock.” That tone meant business. John shut his computer screen to focus all of his attention on his flatmate and, more recently, ‘boyfriend.’ “It’s Christmas Eve. He’s family, and he’s got no one to spend it with.”

The snort Sherlock gave in response was so loud it shook the flat like a minor earthquake. It was so indignant, John found himself slightly cowed. He shook the feeling off immediately and said, “ _What?_ ”

“Reason number one that Mycroft won’t be coming by on Christmas Eve: I don’t _want_ him here. Reason number _two_ : he does have someone to spend it with, his _insufferable_ spouse.”

“…What?”

“Close your mouth, John.”

John did. Then he dropped it open again. “Mycroft is _married?_ For how long? To _who?_ ”

In the interest of maintaining the health of their relationship, Sherlock did not correct John’s question to “to _whom_.” Instead, he flumped into his chair and crossed his long legs, drawing them up to his chest like a teenager throwing a fit. Or, really, like Sherlock Holmes throwing a fit. Which he did often, and with some skill.

John shook his head gently and tried again, “So, that ring he wears is actually…”

“No, it isn’t. He cares for his wedding ring _far_ too much to wear it while he’s working. It’s hideous. Ostentatious. Expensive. Very _Mycroft_.”

“His wedding band is ostentatious?”

“It was crafted from fifteenth-century Spanish gold doubloons, recovered from a British naval shipwreck.”

“…Oh.”

Sherlock was glaring viciously at the wooden stocking-hanger that Mrs Hudson had nestled next to his skull on the mantle. John feared the livery-wearing chestnut horse that topped it would burst into flames from the heat of the stare. John cleared his throat. “Must have been some engagement ring.”

“No. There wasn’t an engagement ring. Pocket watch.”

“He proposed with a pocket watch?” John gave a tiny grin, after he decided it wouldn’t be _too_ rude of a reaction. “…Well, I believe it. It _is_ Mycroft.”

Only, then Sherlock looked away from the stocking-hanger (John might swear he heard a quiet whinny of relief) and the glare faded into a look of subtle amusement.

Apparently, John had said something _funny_ , and he had no idea what it had been. He blinked, stared back, and eventually wet his lips and raised his brows in a way that said, ‘I give up, Sherlock, tell me.’

Sherlock smirked. “Mycroft didn’t propose.”

“Then it makes even more sense, a watch.”

The smirk grew a bit crueller. “Does it?”

“…Sure. Ah! It’s not that woman, is it? His PA? Anth—…Whatever her name actually is?” If that was the case, John would be disappointed. And he didn’t care how rude that was, he _would_ be.

“No.” Sherlock unfolded his legs and leaned forward, still looking rather devilish in glee at his brothers’ expense. “No, it’s not ‘that woman.’ It’s not _any_ woman.”

“Oh… _Oh_.”

“ _Really_ , John?”

“Wh—…What do you mean ‘really’?Yes, _really_. I don’t know him well enough to…I wouldn’t assume—…Wait. When you say not ‘any’ woman—”

“I mean that he’s married to a man. A man who proposed to him with a pocket watch of which he has _never_ let me see the inside, and who made him a wedding band out of _pirates’ gold_ just to _spite_ me.”

“You don’t know it was to spite you.”

“I can suspect.”

“When did this even happen?”                           

“…They’re approaching fifteen years, I believe.”

“ _Fifteen years?_ Holy Hell, Sherlock. Your brother’s been married fifteen _years_ and you still call his husband ‘insufferable’?”

“Because it’s _true_.” The feet had come up again, and John rolled his eyes as he set his laptop aside in favour of grabbing a newspaper. Sherlock huffed.

“How do you figure it?”

“…You said it yourself. Fifteen years. It’s been a decade and a half and I know next to _nothing_ about him. It’s infuriating.”

“Secret government deal?”

“Something like that, I’ve assumed.”

“ _You’ve_ made an assumption. You. Not a deduction?”

“…Yes.” The detective pursed his lips like it pained him to admit the distinction (it did). “There’s not enough _data_ for a deduction.”

He huffed out a sharp sigh.

In truth, meeting Irene Adler had not been the first time Sherlock’s brainstorm cloud of deductive reasoning had come up empty. Blessedly, though, Mycroft’s then-fiancé had not been naked. And, in Sherlock’s defence, he hadn’t been entirely…sober. Which is what he’d thought was the problem. Then he’d met the man again. And a third time.

“—ostentatious?”

“What?”

John smiled. “Was the wedding ostentatious, too? Live orchestra, big flock of doves released at the end of it?”

“…I don’t know. I wasn’t in attendance.”

The smile faded a bit, and the concern threatening to overtake John’s expression nearly made Sherlock wince. Nearly. “Why didn’t you go?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

The concern dropped quickly into annoyance. Offense, really, on Sherlock’s behalf. “What? Why?”

Sherlock glanced back at the mantle, focussing on the decorations again, but not glaring at them. “I…was having trouble receiving mail at the time.”

John went quiet. “…No permanent address?”

And they were back to concern. Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head, letting the hint of a bitter grin creep onto the side of his mouth. “It was a permanent address. Temporarily permanent. And Mycroft knew what it was. He just didn’t bother sending an invitation, because he knew I would be unable to accept.”

“Sherlock…”

“In-patient treatment. Rehabilitation. I was locked up, and Mycroft had the key, and he wasn’t willing to unlock the cage until I was better. Not even to have me at his wedding. Maybe _especially_ not…”

“Christ, Sherlock.”

“I don’t care. And it’s in the past, besides. There’s no use being angry with him.”

“He could have at least sent you some pictures.”

“…He did. I burnt them without opening the envelope.”

John shook his head again, dropping the newspaper to his knee as he leaned back in his chair. “…I still think we should invite him.”

“Of course you do. You’re _nice_.”

John had to grin at that, picking his journal back up with a shake. “Buttering me up won’t work.”

“It might if I were using shortbread.”

“Are you?”

Sherlock sat up immediately and planted his bare feet on the edge of the rug. “Mrs Hudson!”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The shortbread hadn’t worked.

John Watson had ingested an absurd volume of the stuff in the form of delicate round biscuits, occasionally humming in contentment where he sat by the fire, and at the end of the night he had _still_ been convinced it was a good idea to invite Mycroft Holmes to Baker Street on the twenty-fourth of December. What was worse, he had decided they ought to extend the invitation to Mycroft’s “insufferable spouse,” too.

“You never know, Sherlock. They might appreciate it. The man might want to extend an olive branch, if he really _did_ do those things to spite you, as you’re so bloody convinced.”

Sherlock had stared into John’s eyes as he’d reached out, picked up the final shortbread, and crushed it in his fist.

And that was how he ended up outside Mycroft’s office, being forced to invite him in person on threat of death.

(On threat of sleeping alone until next Christmas, actually, but weren’t they one in the same?)

His palm _still_ felt…greasy.

Sherlock glanced up at the desk, where Andrea was happily playing the role of secretary. She had decorated the table top with cliché office toys and picture frames. All of them contained fake photographs—the ones with which they’d been sold. Sherlock was fairly certain that no one ever questioned why “Miss Dinero” appeared to have several different families (of several different ethnicities), or why she was always the one behind the camera. She had strung a bit of tinsel around the frames so they looked like a prison chain gang.

She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled.

It had been nearly two hours. Neither of them had said a word beyond “hello.” Andrea had picked up the desk phone, at one point, and pressed a button, but had said nothing. Sherlock had texted his brother just prior to his arrival, but had gotten no response. It was starting to get ridiculous.

Sherlock’s mobile chimed. He knew who it was, and what it said, but he looked at it anyway.

_What did he say? Have you asked him yet? Youve got to ask him and you cant bribe him to say no. let him decide for himself_

It chimed again.

_let him decide for them I mean. Both of them._

_Still cant believe hes married_.

And once more.

_I guess he might want to talk it over first? make sure he knows he can take his time to answer. As long as it’s by dinner at your parents_

Sherlock let out a terribly long-winded sigh as he slid the phone back into his coat.

It was Andrea’s phone’s turn. It beeped a few times, and a light flashed. “He’ll see you now. You’ve got about seven minutes.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“ _Most_ welcome, of course.” Her tone matched his to the opposite, as sickeningly-sweet and proper as she could sound to combat his dark mood and sarcastic bite, and her smile warmed the room like the best of Yule logs. Sherlock didn’t normally hate her, but he decided to make an exception for the holiday.

He reached the office door and opened it. Attempted to.

It rattled very slightly as he wrenched on the handle.

“Oops! My mistake. I’ll just…buzz you in…”

Exception put forth. Passed. Cemented.

He hated her.

Then he entered the office and slammed the door behind. Attempted to.

Sherlock decided to hate hydraulic noise-dampening systems as well. The door clicked softly shut.

And there, standing behind a disgustingly-beautiful wooden desk and reading a veritable _Atlas Shrugged_ ’s worth of documentation under a dim hanging light, was the person he currently hated most (it would have been second, third, or fourth most, honestly, but the competitors were either not living or they were not what Sherlock considered a _person_ ).

“Five minutes.”

“Your secretary said seven.”

“You wasted one at the door and I’ll need another to recover from this conversation, which I am positively _assured_ will be unpleasant. Four and a half now. Sit.”

Sherlock stood stiffly where he was. Mycroft made no attempt to hide the whites of his eyes as he rolled them, and sat. Only then did Sherlock lower himself warily into the uncomfortable leather quilt-back Barcelona chair that faced his brother’s workspace. The room smelled vaguely like pickled ginger.

“Indulging again, brother? What would your husband think?”

“He brought it to me, and sushi is hardly an _indulgence_. Four minutes. Am I to conclude this conversation will concern my marriage?”

The younger Holmes pursed his lips, and the older raised his brows in mock deference.

Mycroft shook his head. “I refuse to play games with you, Sherlock, as always. I am _very_ busy. Ask whatever it is that John has sent you here to ask, I will say no, and you may leave.”

Sherlock sat still and silent for two full minutes before he consented, to make sure it didn’t look like he was using his brother’s time in an _efficient_ way. Then he spoke:

“John is hosting a small get-together in our flat on Christmas Eve. Mrs Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Molly Hooper. _John_ would like to invite both you and your… _husband_.”

“And the actual question?”

It was very, very difficult for Sherlock to not grit his teeth. “Would you like to attend John’s party?”

“I’ll ask my… _husband_ …what he thinks. Good-bye.”

Sherlock did not gape. He did, however, frown with a somewhat open mouth. “You _said_ you would say _no_.”

“I _am_ saying no. However, as the invitation was, in spirit, asked of my husband as well, I will give him his own opportunity to answer. And he can be quite persuasive.” Mycroft looked up, finally, from the sheets of paper he’d been scanning through their entire meeting. “I believe you might be starting to understand that…?”

“Don’t come.”

“It’s not your decision, nor is it mine. Time is up, Sherlock, I have a very important call to make.”

Sherlock stood with a stiff flap of wool, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ll tell mother if you come. If you bring him to my flat but not to their home, she will be _very_ cross.”

“You realize you’re arguing toward seeing my husband twice this month, as opposed to just the one possible time?”

“…Please don’t come, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s shoulders dropped the slightest bit as his brows drew down, eyes narrowed. Unfortunately, there actually _wasn’t_ time to discuss things further. He gestured to the door. Sherlock’s fists tensed at his side, but he turned and exited the room. Andrea raised her chin to make a comment but it slipped back down her throat when she saw him.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Even more decorations had been smuggled into the flat whilst he’d been at Mycroft’s office. Mrs Hudson had left a fresh batch of shortbread and a festive jar of fig jam—gift from her sister, who was so blinded by her obsession with the small tree in her yard that she could never remember that her sister detested figs—on the table. Neither made up for the indignity Sherlock had suffered that morning. They would only serve as cosmic rewards for John, who deserved _no_ rewards, cosmic or otherwise, for the tragedy he’d wrought.

Sherlock batted the air next to his head to clear the little whisper of _drama queen_.

He fell slowly onto the sofa and stayed there until John got back from one of his increasingly rare shifts at the surgery. Everything was miserable until then.

When John came home and hung his coat and cooed about the shortbread and jam, it was only slightly less miserable.

When he parked himself, kneeling, at the head of the sofa and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair, things started, barely, to look up.

And when he said, “Thank you. I know it must have been difficult; I can’t imagine how much.” Sherlock decided the day might possibly be salvaged after all, even if the month as a whole was irrevocably doomed.

John stood then, and disappeared somewhere that sounded like the kitchen but may as well have been a research station in Antarctica. Sherlock could hear him filling the kettle and flicking it on, for tea to have with the shortbread. He was certain pure carbon would have reached its boiling point faster.

“If you eat any more of that, you’re going to _become_ shortbread. I fear you’re dangerously close to having ingested one hundred-one per cent of your body mass.”

“I am what I eat? Really, Sherlock?” John tutted. “Are you having any?”

Apparently, he’d seen enough of whatever face Sherlock had involuntarily made to decide the answer was “no.”

“I’m not going to become shortbread.”

“No…But you’re going to become fat, and I won’t love you anymore.”

“We both know _that’s_ not true.”

“…You don’t know which part’s not true.”

Sherlock could _hear_ the smirk in John’s voice, picture it in his head. It was far too attractive an expression. “I know both parts aren’t true. Separately, or together. I know I biked an extra mile to work today, and—”

“That is _not_ sufficient cardio to—“

“ _And_ I know that even if I gain eight pounds of pure shortbread this Christmas, you’ll still love me. You like my stomach. You fall asleep on it all the time.”

“…If you smell like shortbread, I won’t sleep in the bed.”

“Fair enough. We’ll pair that with the formaldehyde rule.”

John turned his attention back to clinking his spoon in a pair of cups and arranging a few biscuits on a tiny plate. Sherlock heard him place four, then put one back. He smiled briefly into the sofa.

Then the soft hiss of John’s chair cushion announced that, _finally_ , the second occupant of 221B was back in his rightful place, and two mugs were set on the small table John had taken to keeping near his side. Sherlock rolled over to face him (more or less).

John was looking over the same paper from the previous evening. He glanced up when he felt Sherlock’s eyes. “So, you _did_ ask him.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t give you an answer, or he said yes?”

“First one…He’ll be asking his husband.”

“I did say that he might.”

“Mm…”

John turned a page, lifted his tea to blow on it, and set the mug back down. It was quiet as he read some article or another, then he sighed and slowly put the paper next to his tea. “All right, Sherlock. Please, help me understand this, because I’ve been trying and it’s not getting any clearer to me. You hate Mycroft’s husband—who is, apparently, a real person who _actually_ exists—“

“Debatable.”

“That you hate him?”

At the shake of Sherlock’s head, John gave a bemused wince but continued, “So you hate this man, for…The reasons you gave were that he’s…rich and mysterious? I just don’t get it. Did he…change your brother in some way? Did he convince him to treat you differently, or…?”

“No. Of course not. No one could ever convince Mycroft of _anything_. That’s the _point_.”

John didn’t speak. He didn’t even say his usual, “I don’t understand,” though Sherlock could read it in the lines of his face.

Sherlock huffed and turned toward the back of the sofa once more. The silence continued for several minutes, not even interrupted by the rustling of newsprint or the lifting of a mug, until Sherlock was compelled to break it.

“Caring is _not_ an advantage. He said that to me. He’s _always_ said that. Since he was a _teenager_ he’s said it.”

“…Mycroft as a teenager. There’s something to think about.”

“ _Focus_ , John.”

John focussed, and Sherlock sat up again.

“Emotions, personal connections, _relationships_. He never had respect for them. What _changed?_ What is it about _that_ man? It doesn’t make any _sense_. And he _still_ says that it’s not an advantage!”

“Well, he probably knows from experience, now.”

“ _Experience—_ …John, you were surprised. Shocked.”

“I…Yes.”

“You were _shocked_ to hear he was married. Why? Because you’d never met his spouse? Never heard them mentioned?”

After a moment, John bowed his head. “…No, I admit, that wasn’t why.”

“Exactly. You were shocked because it’s _Mycroft_. People are idiots to me, John; to Mycroft, they are _goldfish_. Now, why would anyone marry a goldfish?”

“…Because they love them?”

“But _why?_ How? _What_ could a goldfish do to earn the love of a man? Honestly, John.”

“I don’t _know_ , Sherlock. Have you asked him?”

“…What?”

“Mycroft. Have you asked him why he married this guy, what’s different about him? Just because you haven’t been able to observe it in fifteen years doesn’t mean there’s no reason.”

Sherlock turned himself back over on the sofa specifically to glare.

“It’s _Mycroft_. There must be a reason…Right? So ask him. At your parents’, you can.”

“…”

“…Yeah, or…you can just go on not knowing. That’s an option. Spend another fifteen years in the dark about it.”

The glare darkened enough to singe nose hairs.

John shrugged. “You haven’t done any observation of them in the years I’ve known you. Maybe it’s time to look at it with a fresh set of eyes.”

Begrudgingly, Sherlock sat up. He kept his glared dialled up to eleven but acquiesced at least by reaching for his tea. “Perhaps.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“Uhm…Sure. Sure, it sounds…fun. Anyone else coming?”

“We’re going to ask Inspector Lestrade. Mrs Hudson, of course, she’ll be bringing some cakes. And…maybe Sherlock’s brother. Haven’t heard back yet.”

“So, just like last time, then.”

“…More or less.”

Molly smiled her wide, closed-lip smile and glanced over at Sherlock, hunched over a microscope as was his usual pose in the laboratory. “It won’t be _exactly_ like last time, though.”

“No. No, definitely not.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“Well, it’s not as though you’ve got anything else to do.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“It’s the truth. Hedging is nonsensical. You know your schedule is clear, you can decide _now_ if you’d like to attend or not.”

With that, Sherlock earned a physical shove toward the office door from John Watson. It was self-preservation, really. If Sherlock acted like a dick, he wouldn’t get cases. If he didn’t get cases, he acted like an even _bigger_ dick. John simply wanted to end the cycle before it began.

“Really, Greg,” he said, “just pop by anytime, if you feel like it. It’s just a small thing, Mrs Hudson and Molly.”

“Molly Hooper?”

“…Yeah?”

The DI turned to Sherlock with a _tsk_. “You’re not going to ruin her holiday this year, are you?”

“ _That_ would be rather difficult, seeing as she no longer possesses any misplaced _fond_ feelings.”

John tilted his head. Greg shrugged.

“If you say so. I’ll probably swing by, yeah. Since I’ve not got _anything_ else to do.” Greg then aggressively waved them toward the door despite John’s apologetic quirk of the lips.

As Sherlock’s hand landed on the door, he paused and turned. “…My brother might also appear. With his spouse.”

“Your brother is _married?_ Well…That, I _gotta_ see.”

It wasn’t until the pair of them reached the street outside the station that John spoke up. “Telling personal information, Sherlock. Not good.”

“I told _you_.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

Sherlock consistently frowned at the word itself, but he could never sustain the expression because of how much he appreciated the meaning. He shook his head as a long arm swung up to hail a cab. “I’ve known Garret longer.”

“But you don’t know him as well. He said that to me, very first day I met him. Besides, Mycroft might not want _all_ of London knowing.”

“It’s in the public registry.”

“Is it?”

“…Probably. I was only guaranteeing his attendance, anyway. For Molly.”

A cab pulled alongside and Sherlock opened the door.

John ducked into the vehicle and slid to the far side. “Right. Very generous of you.”

“It _was_ , wasn’t it?”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

Their luggage had been removed from the saloon car—by John himself, and not Mycroft’s driver. It had been trying enough getting John to accept the ride, he wasn’t going to accept the free labour as well. “Sherlock, I’ve got to be honest.”

Sherlock snapped back to a straight posture, laptop bag in hand, and regarded John with a pinched look. “About what?”

“About your brother-in-law. I just have to say that…I hope he doesn’t come to dinner. I know it’s been bothering you, the idea of seeing him. So as curious as I am, as much as I want to learn more about this guy, I hope he doesn’t show. And I _am_ curious. _Really_ curious. I am a ‘you’ level of curious about him.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“‘And satisfaction brought it back.’ You’re the one who taught me that, remember.”

“…I am already regretful.”

John grinned wide, shouldering his own laptop bag on one side and their single bag of clothing on the other. Sherlock’s parents had convinced them to stay the night, since it was “ _such_ a long drive” back into London. “Let’s go in. It’s freezing!”

It was technically _not_ freezing, but it was only a few degrees away, so Sherlock shrugged and followed along behind John on an as-the-crow-flies path from street to cottage, crunching quietly over the grass until the ground underfoot changed to pale flagstones.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“ _Mikey?_ ” John smirked into his cider.

“Oh, you shouldn’t repeat it! Mycroft just hates being called that—I can’t stop, though, I’ve tried but it’s been _so_ many years. He didn’t mind when he was a boy…” Mrs Holmes shook her head, turning her attention back pot of potatoes.

John turned the giddy smile to Sherlock. “Do you think his husband calls him that?”

“Unlikely. It’s always been ‘Mycroft’ when I’ve overheard. And that’s no surprise, really. The man’s own name is _Kingsley_. I can’t imagine a single nickname they might use between them…And I’d rather not try.”

“Kingsley…Public school?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“He went to a boarding school,” Mrs Holmes said from the stove, “Kingsley’s mentioned it in passing. Up in Scotland, I believe. He always sounds very fond of the place. Not like Sherlock.”

“Like Sherlock…?”

“ _Mother_ , do you need any help.”

She did, in fact, need a bit of help, so the next hour passed with Sherlock peeling carrots and shelling peas and walking the line between endearing his mother with stories about his life with John and earning tongue-lashings for being rude, while John sat with Mr Holmes in the main room and tried to subtly prompt stories from Sherlock’s childhood. They ended up discussing Mrs Holmes’ previous career in chemistry instead which, while interesting, wasn’t half as cute.

Not to mention that after a time, John couldn’t help but notice the familiarity of Mr Holmes’ manner. And wardrobe. Eerie.

It came as a relief to most everyone when three solid, evenly-spaced knocks rang out from the front door.

Sherlock’s relief was unwilling, since he wanted to see his brother’s husband less than he wanted to contract a chronic full-body rash, but he would have accepted even the sweet embrace of death if it meant he didn’t need to open another pea pod.

And as it turned out, his brother’s husband wasn’t there, so Sherlock’s relief became rather willing indeed.

Mycroft shared a look with his younger sibling over the table, held Sherlock’s eyes until he blinked and glanced down at the centrepiece. It was stunning, a gift from the mysterious man who couldn’t _possibly_ have made it to dinner, and was very apologetic for it. Red witch hazel and poinsettias, white forsythia, holly sprigs and ribbon-wrapped mistletoe, it was _unbearably_ Christmas-y. In addition, Mycroft had supplied a blood orange liqueur, and a second alcoholic beverage in an unlabelled bottle that their father stubbornly refused to share—because, he claimed, Sherlock would be more inclined to save the stuff under his tongue to run an experiment on it than to actually swallow.

And so what if that was the case?

John’s laughter hadn’t helped at all.

The dinner had been bearable, despite the pressure to eat more than usual coming from two sides instead of the usual single one. His mother had made a few very subtle remarks about marriage, the true meanings of which had flown entirely over John Watson’s head. Sherlock was grateful. His father had poured a few fingers of his unlabelled alcohol—it looked rather like whisky, smelled like it, but Sherlock couldn’t place the malt. Then he’d poured a bit for John. Sherlock was pleased. Thoughts of the meagre (but existent) data he would glean from John later kept him in relatively high spirits for the rest of the meal. _Relatively_ high.

Which wasn’t very high at all, considering he had a strict ceiling for his level of “spirits” when Mycroft was in the vicinity.

Mycroft, who was going to deliver a crushing blow as soon as that last piece of poached pear had finally met its end. That was the time limit John had set. Dinner. At their parents’.

Mycroft stabbed gently at the piece of fruit, considering it (or appearing to). He turned his fork over once in his hand, listening simultaneously to the conversations that John and his mother were having, and that their father was having more or less with himself. His eyes flicked up to meet his brothers’ and he sat back, straighter, succinctly lifting his last bite of dessert. Finishing the meal. Sherlock was nauseated.

He opened his mouth and shut it at the subtle shake of Mycroft’s head.

He watched his brother set his fork down on his plate, heavily enough to make a noise but not so loud to be truly disruptive, and watched his brother catch John’s eye when the man glanced over at the sound. He watched John smile amicably, Mycroft incline his chin.

And he watched darkness creep into the edge of his vision, heard a buzzing build up in his head and obscure the words he knew were being said.

_We might stop by_. _He doesn’t think it will be unpleasant. Looks forward to meeting you, John_.

It was a death sentence written in litote.

After the table had been cleared and the excess food stored away and John Watson had been given a somewhat uninspired, scientific kiss to aid in the identification of “whisky x,” Mycroft had taken his leave and they had been shuffled off to bed like children with a stern command to brush their teeth.

John lay on his back, turned slightly toward Sherlock. He’d fallen asleep after waiting some twenty minutes for Sherlock’s answer to his question of “Are you all right?” and realising it wouldn’t actually come.

Sherlock sat up against the headboard, pillow tucked in for lumbar support. He was not all right.

He was terrified.

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

There was no longer a single square inch of 221B that had not been tainted by their landlady’s holiday cheer. Even the floorboards hadn’t escaped, saturated with the scent of Christmas baking that wafted up from Mrs Hudson’s quarters below. Sherlock was worried the wretched perfume would last until spring. John had seemed delighted at the prospect, until he realised it would only _mix_ with the smells from Sherlock’s biological experimentation, and not mask them. He was far less enthused with the idea that Baker Street would smell like _The Murders in the Rue Pâtisserie_ than he had been whilst imagining a scented candle shop.

John shrugged as he took two bottles of white wine from the fridge to temper. “We could set a fan up in the window. Actually light a fire in the hearth there. Isn’t that how they get cigarette smoke out of flats’ walls? Feel like I saw a show about it, once.”

“Or we could _move_.”

“I _heard_ that, Sherlock Holmes, you awful man. It’s _Christmas_. Honestly.” Mrs Hudson appeared in the door with a tray of small meat pies, the tops decorated with jagged steam holes reminiscent of holly leaves and small round perforations to represent the berries. She set the tray on the kitchen table next to the wine and began to chat with John about other inconsequential edibles.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was set about trying to remove every trace of pine tree from his chair. John had, blessedly, put his own foot down regarding a live Christmas tree, but that hadn’t stopped Mrs Hudson from finding a plastic model, about three feet tall, that she’d dug out of storage and erected in the corner of the flat. Several of its boughs were shedding, and a path of carnage had been lain from the foyer up the stairs and through the flat itself. Sherlock suspected she had paused next to his favourite piece of furniture and given the decoration a firm shake.

What was it about Christmas that made everyone so _spiteful?_

At least the act of peering at the fabric to pick off each tiny plastic needle was distracting him from the pit of despair that had been constructed by the small inquisitors inside his stomach.

Or it _had_ been, before he’d spectacularly cocked it up by _thinking_ about said pit. Sherlock shuttered his eyes and let his head rest against the cool leather.

There were footsteps on the stairs, Mrs Hudson going back to 221A to fetch more of her arsenal of holiday sweets, and then a hand in his hair. “All right?”

Sherlock could tell from the tone that John didn’t expect an answer. He wondered how long he was willing to wait. Twenty minutes, thirty, an hour. The “party” was slated to start in just under forty minutes. An hour might be inappropriate.

John’s rough fingers stroked through the curls beneath them, around them, and didn’t stop until Sherlock did, in fact, answer.

“…No.”

They stilled. They started again.

“Do you want to discuss this, Sherlock? Because I think it would be a good idea.”

“Nothing to discuss.”

“Isn’t there?”

The fingers paused again as John slowly crouched and found his balance with a lowered centre of gravity. Sherlock shook his head as much as he dared, not wanting to dislodge them.

“I thought you were…not _excited_ , but…I thought maybe it would be all right, him showing up. I thought you were going to give the game another go, try figuring things out. You didn’t ask Mycroft.”

“I know. I was there.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

John’s hand tensed and Sherlock tensed and finally opened his eyes, slowly rolling his forehead against the cushion of his chair so he could look at John’s concerned face, his frown lines. John must have read something in his eyes, because he began stroking through Sherlock’s hair once more.

“So I was wrong. Not terribly surprising. I just don’t understand _why_ I was wrong. I don’t understand why you seem so out of sorts, Sherlock. You seem…scared.”

It was said with such a tentative, breathy voice, a stage whisper, in a way, and only after complex eyes had been tossed toward the door to check for witnesses with arms full of baking.

Someone trapped in the pit seemed to be trying to claw their way out, fingernails long and bedraggled from confinement. Sherlock sighed at the pain of it, tilting forward until his head met John’s.

“…I don’t think I can.”

He watched John’s tongue dart out, then slowly wet his lips and draw back inside. Sherlock kissed him, because he always wanted to kiss John when John was so confused, so heartbrokenly confused, and hating his ever-present need for clarification. It was a short kiss, but it seemed to placate his stomach’s prisoners for a while. John let out a breath between them. He didn’t say anything.

Sherlock nodded, still tucked against John’s head, and clarified, trying to keep his voice even:

“I don’t think I can figure this out, John. I look at that man, and I see _nothing_. They have a cat of some sort but there’s never a trace of it on their clothing. Not a _trace_. He went to a boarding school in Scotland between thirty and forty years ago but it certainly wasn’t any school with kept records. He worked closely with the Prime Minister for a time—that was how he met my brother—but I can find no hints of _why_. They say it was ‘security,’ but there were _no_ recorded threats in that time frame. Nothing in the political climate changed immediately before his arrival _or_ departure to precipitate _or_ end his posting. He was simply _there_ one day, standing behind the Prime Minister. Then he wasn’t. And a year and a half later he’s married to my brother.”

“And you don’t buy ‘office romance.’”

“No.”

“Do you think he’s…dangerous?”

“…I don’t know. One would think that if he had some master plan to take over the world, he could enact it within fifteen years.”

“Mm. One would think.”

There was quiet for a time, John still running his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, trying to find the proper words for whatever it was he wanted to say, which meant it would probably be vaguely insulting.

John sighed. “Maybe they really are just…in love. Not everything has to be smoke and daggers, Sherlock. ‘Makes fools of us all,’ and that. Not to mention…I mean…It’s not really an advantage, is it? It hasn’t been for us.”

Sherlock’s head moved violently to the away, fast enough that John winced on behalf of the muscles in his long neck.

“No—” John started, “No, that’s not how I meant it. I _love_ you.”

They didn’t say it often. Not with actual voices. It was said with laughs instead, and touches, like the ones John had been giving his head before he’d shaken the fingers off with his apparent overreaction.

John shook his head, said it again: “It’s not how I meant it. I didn’t mean it in a bad way, just as the truth. _Objectively_. I did have a bomb strapped to my chest once. Do you think that would have happened if we didn’t love each other?”

“…When that happened, you didn’t—”

“I did, Sherlock. I did.”

Sherlock found himself a small bit mollified, and shrugged his shoulders. He went to speak again and found his throat too tight. It took another minute for it to relax. “…So?”

“So, maybe that’s all he means. To remember that when you love someone, it opens up ways to hurt you. And that means, whoever this guy is, Mycroft has decided that having him in his life was _worth_ that. So maybe he’s not that bad.”

“…But John, he’s _awful_.”

“I don’t believe you. Let’s get up off this floor, now, and get ready for Greg and Molly and _poor_ Mrs Hudson, who has carried up _all_ this food by herself and who we are _so_ grateful for this holiday season…”

The woman in question tittered from where she was at the landing on the stairs, another tray of miscellaneous edibles in hand. “Cheeky thing.”

“Did it work?”

“Well enough. Get up, you. That’s indecent!”

Sherlock rose in a single fluid movement, buttoning his jacket as he did so.

John was a little less graceful, having to use Sherlock’s chair as a boost. “We were just having a chat.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. I do have a touch left, dear, if you’d come help. Make it the last trip.”

“There’s _more?_ ”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

They’d gotten through both bottles of white wine and three-quarters of a bottle of red. “They” consisted almost entirely of Mrs Hudson and Miss Hooper, but John Watson was doing admirably as well. Lestrade had chosen to stick with warmed cider, and Sherlock had chosen to remain a paragon of sobriety.

“You said your brother’d be stopping by.”

Sherlock turned, still pulling his bow slowly over the strings of his violin. The sound wavered in a way that managed to sound purposeful—or would, at least, sound purposeful to anyone who’d swallowed at least a few ounces of a reasonably alcoholic beverage. The shivering shake of it stung Sherlock’s own ears.

Detective Inspector Lestrade sat on the sofa, a light smile on his face, Molly an arm’s length away nibbling a small slice of moist fruit cake. Molly was chatting quietly with Mrs Hudson about some television programme, and complimenting the food. Mrs Hudson was perched on the very edge of Sherlock’s chair, her feet almost touching John’s, who had been dozing when Sherlock picked up his violin, but now watched him through half-lidded eyes.

Sherlock shrugged with his resting shoulder. “He will be, briefly.”

“When?”

“… _Later_ , I imagine.”

He didn’t have to look to know John’s eyes had narrowed. Sherlock cleared his throat and played a bit louder. Lestrade, at least, seemed unperturbed. He sipped his drink and turned his attention (and his body in general) toward Molly, speaking in a small voice when the talk of actors and plots had faded. “Have you met Sherlock’s brother? Apparently, he’s _married_.”

“…Oh?”

Sherlock swung around immediately, fixing Molly in place on the sofa with a wide stare. She took a long sip from her wine glass.

“You _knew_. How did _you_ know?”

The long sip continued. Molly emptied her wine glass, in fact. Then she had no excuse, and was forced to answer. “W-well, he does wear a ring—”

“Not a wedding ring. _How?_ ”

“I…He…I only _guessed_ , I didn’t know!”

“Molly.” Sherlock had lowered his instrument, arms limp at his sides, light eyes illuminated and made somewhat off-putting by the flickering of the fire in the hearth. Off-putting, but not intimidating. He looked sincere, in a way; he looked honestly curious, awaiting the answer with held-breath instead of clenched-jaw. “How?”

Molly raised her empty glass again, letting a single, small drop of blended wine collect and roll down the side toward her mouth (red, but not as red as it had been at their last Christmas gathering). “…He took a call once. After…Well, it was after last time. With that woman. He took a call. It wasn’t very long and I didn’t really hear what he said, but he looked…fond. And he smiled. He smiled like…like you only smile when you’re talking to someone you love very much. And you had just left, so…I thought it might be your parents, but he said good-bye and I asked, and…he said it wasn’t.”

“And you decided he was _married?_ ”

“…I saw his face.”

Sherlock frowned as Molly gave a gentle shrug and looked at her feet.

Greg cleared his throat. “So, what’s he like, then? His husband?”

Molly looked up again. “Husband?”

“Ha.”

“…Well, isn’t it? You’ve met him. Mycroft, I mean.”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Wha—Wait, Greg—Wait. What on earth’s that mean?”

“I _told_ you, John.”

“No, _hang on_. What’s—”

“I hardly meant it as an insult. But it is obvious, though, isn’t it?”

“Of course it—” “That’s not the—” “Is it?”

“ _Ooh_ , speak of the devil himself!”

Eight eyes turned to Mrs Hudson, and then the door to the stairs.

“…I would hope I’m not interrupting anything important. That _was_ , after all, the intended goal of our being ‘fashionably late.’”

“Ah,” came a deep voice, nearly overshadowed by the creak from the second stair before the landing. “The _intended_ goal. Is that our story, Mycroft? We should have colluded.”

John stood, drowsiness gone, and Sherlock seemed to scramble, flounder, execute a barely-controlled sort of breakdown of the nervous system as he put away his violin and took position in John’s chair.

Mycroft walked another few steps into the flat. A broad-shouldered, brown-skinned man ducked in behind. Mycroft was in charcoal pinstripe, his husband in black. Both wore jewel-tone ties, emerald and sapphire, over brocade waistcoats of silver and gold respectfully, combined with a somewhat busy pattern in colours that echoed each silk tie. Mycroft was staring at a tarnished pocket watch. Most everyone was else was staring at Mycroft’s husband.

Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on the window, or more accurately, on the reflection of the man in the window pane.

“We can’t stay long, if we’re expected to spend half the night at the Burrow.”

“I’m sure we’ve plenty of time. Please, introduce me to your friends.”

“My brother’s friends…Acquaintances.”

“ _Friends_ ,” was bitten out from the armchair.

“…Friends. Of my brother. And his landlady, Mrs Hudson.”

“ _Hello_ , dear. Absolute pleasure. You’re quite dark, aren’t you?”

Molly squeaked and reached over for the half-full glass of red wine blend in Mrs Hudson’s coyly gesturing hand. She passed it to the Detective Inspector, who placed it on the floor after a second of stark confusion.

The man in question merely chuckled and offered her a slow nod. “Yes, in this company, I suppose I am. It does smell _wonderful_ here. Your doing?”

Mrs Hudson’s hand didn’t seem to notice it had lost its beverage, which, had it not been removed, almost certainly would have wound up down her front as she clapped a hand to her chest. “It certainly is! The boys just _complain_ , you know. At the beginning they liked it, but then only _complaints_. And it’s Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas, Mrs Hudson.”

“About time someone said it to me. Your brother-in-law is _lovely_ , Sherlock. He’s lovely. You never said.” She reached to slap the closer of Sherlock’s knees.

He scowled. “ _Happy_ Christmas _,_ MrsHudson.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“So you must be Miss Hooper, and you, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Ah, yes.” “Yeah. Hi.” “Merry Christmas.”

“And to you.”

“Er…” Both Molly and Greg turned their noses into their drinks, despite Molly’s being glass empty (still) and Greg’s being close-to. Molly’s cheeks had gone pink, but it was hard to tell a difference over the flush they’d already attained from the evening’s wine.

The man simply smiled and turned his attentions off the sofa, to one John Watson, who was standing a bit taller, and a bit stiffer, than he did when entirely relaxed.

John gave a quick and quiet clear of his throat, then nodded, putting out his hand.

He was certain, absolutely positive, that if Mycroft hadn’t supplied his husband with personal dossiers on everyone prior to the meeting, he had at least named them all. John ignored that, and as Sherlock’s brother-in-law accepted his hand for a shake, he very pointedly said, “John Watson.”

“Yes. Dr John Watson, I’ve heard.”

“Yes.”

“Very well met. Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

“That sounds like a fake name… _Ah_. Sorry.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked behind them, a bit maliciously, and more than a bit in Mycroft’s direction.

John shook his head. “Sorry, I’m…It’s been a night, and…I’ve had a bit to drink.”

“I understand. It’s quite uncommon.”

“It’s hardware.” John winced again at his loose tongue, and Sherlock actually laughed. It was short and harsh and mean, but…John shrugged. If he could brighten Sherlock’s retched evening by acting like an idiot, he was happy to.

Didn’t stop it from being embarrassing, though.

“Is it? I’ve afraid I’m unfamiliar with construction.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry. Could I get you a drink?”

Mycroft was standing thin-lipped behind them, staring Sherlock down.

“A warmed cider would be wonderful. Thank you.”

John took the opportunity to flee into the kitchen. It was only a few feet away, but he had a table full of Mrs Hudson’s fragrant baking to separate him from the main event. Plus, he could make excuses about needing to pour a bit more into the pot, and then he’d have to wait for it to heat up, so…Obviously, he could be away a while.

Something had emboldened Sherlock. He stood and straightened his jacket, taking four long steps until he formed an isosceles triangle with Mycroft and Mycroft’s insufferable husband. He smiled. It was…dark.

“Sherlock, Happy Christmas.”

“Of course, _Kingsley_.”

“We didn’t bring gifts, I’m afraid.”

“Of course. No need.”

“We know you don’t care for the obligation.”

“ _Of course_ you do.”

Mycroft, erstwhile, had been pressing his lips together with enough force to crush a penny. “Sherlock—”

“I’m going to find out.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll find out, Mycroft. I will find out what it is.”

The pinched expression wasn’t anything new or unusual, but Sherlock seemed pleased to have caused it. Mycroft shook his head. “I had been under the impression you weren’t drinking this evening.”

“I’m not. I am seeing things _very_ clearly. Like the fact that you have a secret.”

“Don’t we all.”

“A _compelling_ secret. A very. Big. Secret.”

Kingsley smiled and put a hand on Mycroft’s back. “A secret? I hope it’s not from me as well.”

Sherlock’s mouth, stretched wide, twitched. He blinked. Then he slid his gaze slowly from Mycroft to Kingsley and back again. “Oh.”

“Sherlock.”

“ _Oh_.”

“This is precisely why I didn’t want to come.”

John reappeared then, holding a mug of cider. “Eh?”

“Sherlock has something foolish in his head.”

“It’s not foolish.”

“What? Sherlock, what’s…?”

The mug was lifted from John’s hand. Kingsley nodded at him in thanks, took a sip, and sighed. “Mycroft, it’s Christmas.”

Sherlock took John by the arms and stared into his face for a moment. There was fire in his pale eyes, a brightness John hadn’t seen since the first week of December. He couldn’t be upset, it was hopeless. Sherlock could reduce everyone at the party to tears if it meant looking like that.

“John. I know it.”

“…Yeah?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Yes.”

“Er…What is it you know?”

Mycroft gave into the urge to roll his eyes and looked toward the other three people present in the flat. “Is it all that you imagined it would be?”

Mrs Hudson had fallen into a doze, but Molly and Greg both nodded silently.

Sherlock’s hands left John’s shirt, clapping together instead (and making their poor landlady jump out of sleep). “I know why.”

“Why…?”

“My _brother_ , John. And his marriage? Keep up.”

“Right.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a mystery.”

“Don’t encourage him, Kingsley.”

Sherlock launched away, stepping between the married men—Kingsley had to remove his arm—and began to pace the small area of the flat that was clear of both guests and holiday decorations. He spun on his heel near the door. “There _is_ a secret. There is a secret that both of you know, that Mycroft is not _supposed_ to know.”

He pointed at Kingsley. “It’s _your_ secret…but not yours alone.”

A small snort came from the sofa. “They’re together because of a secret?”

“What? No. What? Shut up, Guthrie. They’re together because they’re in love.”

“I _knew_ i—”

“Not now, John. They’re _in love_ because of a secret.”

Mycroft opened the pocket watch again, brows drawn. “I’m learning so much about myself.”

Leaning over to take a peek himself, Kingsley grinned. “As am I.”

“Don’t play dumb—you aren’t even as good at it as my brother, and that’s _really_ saying something. So, a secret. A _big_ secret. How big? Big enough that Mycroft is keen on keeping us separated. He thinks I could figure it out, and that would be… _dangerous_. Dangerous to Britain? Interesting.”

“Brother mine, you’ve missed something rather spectacular already.”

“…What?”

“If there _is_ such a secret, a secret that is more my _husband’s_ than my own, why, then, would _he_ not be keen on keeping it from you? If you recall, I refused your invitation.”

“John’s invitation.”

“ _John_ ’s invitation. It was Kingsley who thought stopping by would be ‘nice.’”

John cleared his throat. “And, ah, thank you for it. Great to meet you.”

“My same regards, Dr Watson.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes once more and continued. “Your argument is based on a small number of very loosely-grasped straws, Sherlock, because you are looking for reason where there is _none_. The very idea that I would find a person interesting _only_ as they hold some government secret or another is offensive.”

“ _Government_ secret?”

“It’s not _true_ , Sherlock.”

“…No. No, of course it isn’t.”

“As though I would find that interesting…How hideously _mundane_.”

“Yes. It is.”

Throughout his brother’s counter-argument, Sherlock’s fire had frozen. He’d slowed down, frost creeping over his limbs and cold calculation shining in his gaze. “It’s not something mundane.”

“Sherlock, _please_.”

“It’s something extraordinary, then.”

“Kingsley, have you finished your cider?” “Not yet, dear.”

“Something fantastic.”

“ _Honestly_ , Sherlock.”

“Something…magical.”

Mycroft scoffed outright, shoving the watch away into his jacket’s inner pocket and turning toward the door. His husband had continued sipping from his mug of cider, black eyes sparkling bright.

“Kingsley, we’re late. People are becoming _worried_.”

Sherlock looked between them, brows drawn low. Before he could say another word, there was a mug in his hand. It was empty.

Kingsley smiled. “Very good to meet your friends, Sherlock. And John, of course. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

“…Yes. We will.”

“We will?”

“We _will_ , John. Again soon. Very soon.” Sherlock handed him the mug.

“Right. Of course we will. Er. Well met.”

Molly and Greg waved from the sofa, jaws slack, as Mycroft’s husband linked arms with Mycroft and carried on down the stairs. The door to the street opened and closed. Sherlock was by the window at that point; he threw it open. John stepped in behind him.

“Well?”

“No car.”

“Did they arrive in one?”

“ _No_.”

“…Learn anything new?”

Sherlock turned slowly. He smiled at John, then at Molly and Lestrade on the sofa, and at Mrs Hudson asleep again in his chair, even though she couldn’t nervously smile in return as Molly had. “Oh, _yes_.”

“You aren’t going to tell us.”

Sherlock turned back to the open window, breathing in the crisp winter air and _listening_. There was no snow, but the weather still seemed to dampen things. The ever-present growl of tyre rubber against the road, of carollers, of charity bells.

The quiet _pop_ he’d heard before, so many times before, but never _thought_ about. Never _linked_ to anything, anyone’s presence. The _pop_ that made so many dozens of tiny pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

His smile turned into a self-satisfied, Cheshire cat grin, the kind that made strangers shudder and John roll his eyes. “No. It’s a _secret_.”

John rolled his eyes. “All right, it’s a secret. Let’s just start planning a New Year’s dinner with them, then.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

“…Right. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”


End file.
